


Hands

by Gem_Gem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hand & Finger Kink, Hands, Holding Hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 00:31:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3999118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soon those innocent, unnoticed, normal touches turned into something else entirely</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is. I wrote it last night.
> 
> I adore Sherlock's hands. Is this hand porn? Soft hand porn? I don't know. 
> 
> Leave a comment if you liked it and let me know what you think.
> 
> * The summary and beginning was a sort of tease seeing as many may think something sexual when reading it at first.

It had started with just a brushing of fingers, slight touches when things were handed over or taken away or fought over, all perfectly normal, things you couldn’t really not do, things that were natural and purposeful; but soon those touches lingered, lengthened and appeared for no good reason. Fingers groping and pressing and smoothing and pulling and stroking and capturing, as they fled down the street together after some criminal, as they argued, as they talked, as they ate, even as they stood stationary at a particularly gruesome (but damn exciting) murder. Soon those innocent, unnoticed, normal touches turned into something else entirely. Something two grown men shouldn’t be doing. Something John, a heterosexual male, should definitely not be doing. 

Sherlock’s fingers were long and slender and elegant, coarse at the tips from the violin and littered with chemical burns from his failed or over enthusiastic experiments. John followed the curve of them, watched the jump of tendons and the graceful shape of bones beneath pale skin, and then tracked his eyes up to the slim wrist and finally to the profile of Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock wasn’t looking at him, he eyes on the moving scenery outside the taxi window and his mouth pursing softly in thought, mind probably lost on facts and theories and a million other things. 

Those long fingers shifted against the space between them on the taxi’s seat again, gaining John’s attention once more. They flexed, twitched, drummed out a quick rhythm and then crawled across the gap to slither and curl and entwine with John’s own. 

John clenched his jaw and let out a particularly loud breath through his nose with a deep frown, almost glaring at Sherlock’s hand as it pushed and arranged his own until they were once again holding hands. John couldn’t actually recall when it had started, but it had somehow, somewhere, and John had let it start and had let it continue for some time. 

Lestrade had caught them at it once and John had blushed harder than he ever remembered doing before. It was such a simple thing, hand holding wasn’t sexual in any way, but it was extremely intimate, or it felt that way to John who had only ever held the soft hands of the women he had dated in the same way. John really should have put a stop to it, should have put his foot down, and still should in fact; it certainly didn’t help the “not actually gay” debates he seemed to constantly have. 

He had asked Sherlock about it one night, once Sherlock had purposely sat on the armrest of John’s chair if only to scoop up his hand and interlace it with his own, and Sherlock had looked at him calmly and seriously, had shrugged, had stroked John’s knuckles and stated without embarrassment or hesitation that John’s touch grounded him, helped him think, helped him calm the erratic whirl of data inside his head, and that he liked the touch of John’s skin against his own in a way he couldn’t exactly verbally explain.

Sherlock’s thumb swiped up John’s hand in that moment and John inhaled silently but sharply through his lips and closed his eyes. He would be lying to himself if he didn’t feel the same. Sherlock’s touch grounded him too. John had a huge swell of affection for the man beside him, he loved him, he was his best friend, one he had felt an instant connection for, and whom he was extremely loyal too. However, best friends don’t go around holding hands, not at his age, not when he was trying to date and definitely not when he was constantly correcting people in their wrong assumption of his sexuality.

Sherlock’s fingers rubbed between the gaps of his fingers with another languid flex and John opened his eyes and looked back over to find Sherlock’s eyes on him. John lifted his brows in question slowly and Sherlock replied with an arch of one single eyebrow and a small smile, squeezing John’s hand warmly. He seemed happy that John wasn’t fighting him, wasn’t pushing him away and refusing his seek of comfort, and probably extra ecstatic for getting his own way.

John rolled his eyes and failed to stifle the answering grin. He looked at their intertwined hands and admired the difference between them for what felt like the hundredth time. John’s fingers were thick, rough from work and tanned, dotted with freckles haphazardly at the knuckles, completely different from Sherlock’s in almost every way possible. The sight reminded John of the yin and yang symbol, opposites balancing, and interconnected. They complimented each other, relied on each other, and needed each other.

John tapped his fingers against Sherlock’s skin and was answered with a sequence of taps that made John snort with soft laughter. He had no idea when Sherlock had learned Morse code and peeked over at Sherlock with a smile that was returned instantly, Sherlock’s eyes sparkling with amusement. 

They beat their fingers against each other’s hands in silent conversation with muffled laughter and John, for a while, forgot how strange it was to hold his best friends hand like some giggling schoolboy.


End file.
